A Nanny For Christmas

‘I am aware of that,’ he said, a touch drily. ‘I thought until an hour or so ago that I’d got the balance about right. Until Miss Grant arrived to correct me, that is.’

‘Oh, really?’ Phoebe found herself subjected to a somewhat sharper scrutiny. ‘Are you some kind of social worker, then?’

‘No,’ Phoebe said. ‘I’m a waitress at the Clover Tea Rooms, in Westcombe.’

‘I see.’ Hazel Sinclair clearly didn’t. She gave a silvery laugh. ‘It’s not an establishment I’m familiar with, I have to say. Is it one of your haunts, Dominic? It doesn’t sound very likely.’

‘It isn’t,’ he said briefly. ‘But Tara likes it, apparently.’ He paused. ‘I don’t want to seem ungracious, Hazel, but I was just about to run Miss Grant back to Westcombe and then visit the hospital.’

‘Of course. I must be getting back myself. The first guests will be arriving.’ She smiled at him dazzlingly. ‘If you’ve time when you’ve completed all your errands of mercy, call round. So many people want to welcome you back after all this time. Besides, it’s essential for you not to be a hermit.’

‘I think I can promise that.’ He took the hand she’d archly extended and dropped a quick kiss on it. ‘Tonight just isn’t on, Hazel, but I’ll ring you next week and we’ll have dinner.’

‘I’ll hold you to that, darling.’ She bestowed a distinctly less radiant look on Phoebe. ‘Good night, Miss—er...?’

‘Grant,’ Phoebe supplied helpfully. ‘Clover Tea Rooms. Home-baking a speciality.’

As he closed the front door behind Hazel Dominic Ashton turned back to Phoebe with a wintry look.

‘You’re not quite as demure as you look, are you, Miss Grant?’

‘I don’t understand.’ Phoebe returned the look. ‘Is there a problem?’

There was a brief, oddly pregnant silence, then he said slowly, still staring at her, ‘Do you know, Miss Grant? I think there might be. I really think there might.’

He sighed, swiftly and sharply. ‘So—shall we go now?’

‘Please,’ said Phoebe. And thought, The sooner, the better.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS a largely silent journey. Dominic Ashton seemed lost in thought as he expertly threaded his powerful four-wheel drive through the lanes.

And Phoebe, sitting with her hands clenched tightly in her lap, was far too uncomfortably aware of his physical proximity to be capable of producing any intelligent topic of conversation to fill the void.

‘Only six weeks until Christmas,’ and, ‘Do you think we’ll have snow before New Year?’ were all she could think of, and she instantly discarded both of them. Silence was preferable to total banality.

‘Whereabouts in Westcombe?’ he eventually asked abruptly as they approached the outskirts.

‘You can drop me in the High Street.’

‘I could also throw you in the river,’ he observed icily. ‘But, as I intend to take you to your door, let’s drop the evasions and give me your address. It will save us both time and temper.’

‘Hawthorn cottage—twenty-nine, Rushton Street,’ Phoebe said eventually, and mutinously.

‘Simplest solutions are always best,’ he murmured, and her hands curled into fists.

Hang in there, she adjured herself silently. A few more minutes and he’ll be gone. And as soon as Debbie comes back to work you can go too—as far and as fast as possible. And you’ll never, ever have to see him again.

As they drew up, she said, ‘Thank you.’

‘I wish I could think you meant that.’ He leaned forward, studying the narrow little house crammed awkwardly between its neighbours. ‘Astonishing.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Phoebe felt herself bristling.

‘Granted.’ He swung himself lithely out of the driving seat and went round to open the passenger door. ‘I was thinking what a strange mass of contradictions you are.’

‘Well, please don’t lose any sleep over it, Mr Ashton,’ she snapped, ignoring the helping hand he’d extended as she scrambled out.

‘On the contrary,’ he said softly. ‘I have a strong feeling that you’re going to cost me a lot of sleepless nights, Miss Grant.’

Phoebe, shaken, and for once at a loss, gave him a fulminating look and stalked to her gate.

As she opened it she heard, quiet but unmistakable, the creak of her front door closing. She stopped dead with a groan. ‘Oh, no.’

‘I’ll deal with it.’ Dominic Ashton strode past her towards the shadowy figure hovering in the porch.

Phoebe, close on his heels, heard a slight scuffle and a yelp. ‘Oh, don’t hurt him. It’s my landlord.’

‘But he was coming out of your house.’

‘She’s been complaining about a leak in the roof,’ Arthur Hanson squeaked in breathless outrage. He was a thin man, balding, with a straggling beard. ‘I came round to look at it.’

‘In the pitch darkness?’ Dominic asked contemptuously. ‘You haven’t even got a flashlight.’

‘I decided to have a look in the loft first,’ Mr Hanson said, with an attempt at dignity.

‘In Miss Grant’s absence?’ Dominic released his hold on the other man’s collar.

‘He’s always doing it,’ Phoebe said wearily.

‘I have a right to conduct regular inspections.’

‘From now on, telephone Miss Grant and make an appointment.’

As Mr Hanson scuttled off Dominic turned a frowning gaze on Phoebe. ‘Has this been going on for long?’

‘Ever since I moved in.’

‘Then I strongly recommend you have the locks changed. He may be your landlord, but you have a right to your privacy.’

He followed her into the hall, looking around him critically. Comparing it, no doubt, with North Fitton House. ‘How much rent is he charging you?’

Phoebe lifted her chin. ‘Isn’t that covered by the right to privacy you just mentioned?’ she challenged.

‘It’s not just idle curiosity. I have contacts in the private rental market,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you could get something better than this.’

‘It’s perfectly adequate for my present needs,’ she said stiffly.

‘And your job represents complete fulfilment too?’ There was a note of faint derision in his voice.

She shrugged defensively. ‘I like my colleagues, and the customers are pleasant.’

‘Give or take the odd waif and stray.’

‘Tara was hardly that.’ She paused. ‘Please don’t let me keep you, Mr Ashton. You must be keen to get to the hospital. I don’t know when visiting hours end...’

‘There’s plenty of time.’ His mouth curved in amusement. ‘You’re not very subtle, Miss Grant. Or very hospitable,’ he added. ‘Considering I’ve driven you home, and got rid of a pest for you.’

‘I didn’t ask you to do either.’ Phoebe jiggled the sitting-room light switch in increasing irritation. ‘I don’t need your help, Mr Ashton. I can handle my own affairs.’

‘In the same way as you’re dealing with that light, I suppose?’ With infuriating coolness, he moved her gently out of the way, clicked the switch and the light stuttered on. He looked, frowning, at the old-fashioned flex supporting the central pendant. ‘Does that happen much?’

‘It’s temperamental,’ she conceded.

‘Perhaps it’s the effect you have on it,’ he murmured. ‘Does the kettle not work either?’

There was a silence, then Phoebe took a deep breath. ‘May I offer you some coffee, Mr Ashton?’ she asked grimly.

‘How kind of you, Miss Grant,’ he mocked. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

So did I, Phoebe thought, seething as she went down the narrow passage to the kitchen.

She was totally aware of him, lounging in the doorway, watching her, as she filled the kettle and set it to boil. She had fresh coffee and a percolator, but instant would do for this occasion, she thought, getting down the jar and spooning granules into two mugs. Instant coffee and, hopefully, instant departure. Certainly she’d give him no excuse to linger.

But as she added the milk he’d politely requested, and stirred the brew, she had the uneasy feeling that he knew exactly what she was up to, and was laughing at her.

Jaw set, she led the way back to the sitting room, pausing in surprise to see that he’d kindled the fire.

‘I believe there’s a superstition that you shouldn’t tend anyone’s fire until you’ve known them for seven years, but I decided to risk it,’ Dominic Ashton drawled. ‘After all, we’re practically old acquaintances.’

Her heart skipped a panicky beat. ‘Not,’ she said, ‘as far as I’m concerned.’

His mouth twisted. ‘You don’t take many prisoners, Phoebe.’ He paused. ‘That’s an unusual and charming name. May I know how you came by it? Or is that another invasion of privacy?’

Phoebe looked at the flickering fire. ‘My mother was playing the shepherdess in an amateur production of As You Like It when she met my father,’ she said, her voice unconsciously wistful. ‘It was love at first sight.’

‘Even though Phoebe isn’t a very likeable character in the play?’

She was startled. ‘You know Shakespeare?’

‘I’m not a complete Philistine.’ Leaning back on the cramped settee, his long legs stretched out in front of him, he dwarfed the room. ‘Where are your parents now?’

Phoebe sank her teeth into her lower lip. Then she told him, ‘My mother died when I was a child. I—I lost my father just over six months ago.’

He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry. My facetious remarks about Serena were totally out of place.’

‘You couldn’t have known,’ she said. ‘Please don’t worry about it.’

‘Have you any brothers or sisters?’

She shook her head. ‘I was an only child.’

‘No relations at all?’ He was frowning.

‘My father’s sister is still alive,’ she said. ‘But we’re not close.’ She paused. ‘My father put all his energies into work after my mother—went. He was very successful, and eventually sold his business for a great deal of money. He should have been secure for life. He invested in a secondhand book shop, which he ran himself as a hobby. He was really happy, probably for the first time in years.’

‘And?’ he prompted when she hesitated.

‘Only someone persuaded him to play the stockmarket. He ended up owing enormous sums—debts he couldn’t possibly pay. We lost everything. The house, the shop, the furniture—it was all sold off.’

She shook her head. ‘My aunt seemed to feel that Dad had shamed the family name, and she wrote us off, even though he’d helped her husband out several times in the past.’

‘And she wasn’t prepared to do the same, and couldn’t live with the guilt,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s quite a familiar story.’

A story that she couldn’t believe she’d actually told him. It was something, like her grief, which she’d kept private, hugged fiercely to herself. She’d never confided in anyone. How had he, of all people, managed to break through the shell?

She gathered her defences. ‘What do you know about it?’

‘I come across similar cases all the time in my work. I’m a financial adviser—a troubleshooter, if you like. I go into companies, large and small, which have hit problems, and try and provide realistic solutions.’

‘I hope,’ she said, ‘that you don’t look at me in the same light.’

‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘Your path is clearly strewn with primroses.’

‘Because,’ she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘I don’t need your charity.’

‘And I wouldn’t dream of offering it,’ he said coolly. ‘I’m very highly paid for what I do.’

‘Encouraging people at their wits’ end to get into more debt?’ she said bitterly. ‘Raising false hopes?’

He finished his coffee and set down his mug. He said slowly, ‘Your poor opinion of me seems to have all kinds of ramifications.’

‘We’re strangers,’ she said. ‘I don’t have an opinion.’

‘Lady, you could have fooled me,’ he drawled. ‘I’d say I was tried and condemned before you ever set eyes on me.’ He leaned forward, his grey eyes fixed on her face.

Today,’ he said. ’You did me a tremendous service. When we were at my house, I suggested that we make a fresh start. I’d still like to do that.’

‘Why?’ she asked baldly.

‘Because I want to be your friend.’ He spoke very gently. His eyes were gentle too, and his mouth curved suddenly in a smile without mockery. Despite herself, Phoebe felt a sudden pang of emotion akin to longing twist deep inside her. And it frightened her.

She said tonelessly, ‘That’s very obliging of you, Mr Ashton. But I have enough friends already.’

‘Indeed.’ He got to his feet. ‘Well,’ he went on, his face and voice expressionless, ‘that must make you unique to the rest of the human race. Then can I ask instead that you don’t consider me an enemy when we meet in future?’

Phoebe rose too. ‘It’s unlikely our paths will ever cross again, Mr Ashton.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that because I know Tara has her heart set on seeing you.’ He walked to the door, then turned. He said quietly, ‘Phoebe, please don’t allow your judgement of me to affect my daughter. That wouldn’t be fair. Good night.’

She heard the front door close behind him, and sank back onto her chair, aware that her legs were shaking under her.

‘And that’s not fair either,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘Oh, so clever, Mr Ashton.’

She couldn’t sleep that night, although she tried the usual anodynes of a warm bath and hot chocolate. She found herself tossing restlessly from one side of the bed to the other.

Dominic Ashton filled her mind, precluding all else.

She could hardly believe her own bad luck. On his own admission, he’d only been back at Fitton Magna a short time. If she hadn’t been offered that temporary job at the tea rooms, she might have moved away from West combe in complete safety, her peace of mind intact.

Peace of mind? a scornful voice in her head seemed to ask. You don’t even know what that means. For six years you’ve been torturing yourself over this man. Doing endless penance for something that wasn’t even your fault. Flaying yourself over a humiliation that he doesn’t even remember. Not even your name rang any bells with him. It was all far too trivial for that. You’ve been beating yourself to death for nothing, you stupid bloody idiot

And now you’ve seen him again. You’ve talked to him and the world hasn’t come to an end. In fact, this could just be the impetus you need to get you out of West combe and onto this new life that you want. If you’re not careful, you could end up feeling grateful to him.

‘Oh, no,’ Phoebe said aloud, and forcefully. ‘Not that. Never that’

She pushed the quilt away, got out of bed, put on her robe and trailed downstairs.

There were still embers glowing in the grate, and she added a few sticks and some lumps of coal, then curled up in the corner of the settee, staring at the flames.

Whatever she did, the bad dreams, the obsession with Dominic Ashton as the villain who had scarred her for life had got to end, she told herself. And that wouldn’t happen unless she went back to the beginning. Remembered, and placed in perspective, everything that had happened.

Up to now, she’d never really allowed herself to do that, telling herself it hurt too much. Finding it easier to focus only on the culmination of the whole wretched chain of events.

Now she made herself recall how it had all begun.

Which, of course, had been with Tony...

‘You fancy him, don’t you?’ asked Tiffany, laughing.

Phoebe blushed. ‘No, of course not’

They were in Tiffany’s bedroom, trying on clothes. Phoebe looked at herself in a tiny scarlet Lycra skirt and a black bustier. She’d never worn anything like them in her life. She’d never been allowed to. Her father was ultraconservative about clothes. When Phoebe needed anything, a personal shopper from one of the big department stores was employed and her instructions were clear.

In fact, it was amazing that her dad had allowed her to spend a few days at Tiffany’s. But then, as she admitted to herself, if he’d had any idea what a comparatively short time Phoebe had known her, he would probably have refused. The fact that Tiffany had only arrived at the school the previous term had been kept strictly under wraps.

Tiffany’s house was a revelation. It had been designed along the lines of an ante-bellum mansion of the American Deep South, because, as Tiffany’s mother had explained, she’d spent her honeymoon in New Orleans and felt it was her spiritual home.

The decor was lavish. Phoebe, more used to book-lined walls and faded chintzes, thought, a shade uncomfortably, that it was like a Hollywood movie set. Every bathroom gleamed with gold fittings. Every window seemed to droop under the sheer weight of swagged and festooned velvet. The kitchen seemed as elaborate as the control capsule of a space craft, and as sterile, because no one ever cooked in it.

Outside, there was a heart-shaped swimming pool, with an adjoining Jacuzzi, and a tennis court.

Partly because of this, but mainly through the totally casual welcome extended by the Bishops to anyone who turned up, the place was always teeming with people.

Tony Cathery was one of them.

He was at university, reading Fine Arts, because, as he’d said, he couldn’t think of anything more useful, and Tiffany, apparently, had known him ‘for ever’.

He was tall and blond, with blue eyes which crinkled at the corners, and a glossy Mediterranean tan acquired in the Greek islands earlier that summer. And, yes, he’d confirmed, grinning, it was all over, if anyone wanted to check. He was a marvellous swimmer, a terrific tennis player and an exuberantly sexy dancer.

Phoebe had never encountered anyone quite like him. Up to the time of his arrival, she’d been feeling very much the odd one out. There was no one else she knew there, and everyone else seemed so much smarter and streetwise than she did.

She was miserably aware that a couple of the girls had christened her ‘Feeble Feeb’ and laughed at her behind her back, and there had been times when she’d wondered if Tiffany was regretting that she’d ever invited her. Certainly she didn’t seem to want to spend much time with her. And, in a house virtually devoid of books, Phoebe often found herself at a loss.

Eventually, she discovered an elaborate onyx and ivory chess set on a table in the ornate conservatory which served as an extension of the drawing room.

She was hunched over it one day, half-heartedly working out a chess problem—and considering the more pressing dilemma of what excuse she could make to cut her visit short—when a voice behind her said softly, ‘My God, I don’t believe it. At last, a woman with a brain.’

Startled, Phoebe turned to find Tony Cathery smiling down at her.

‘Black seems to be in a hopeless position,’ he went on, pulling up a chair opposite her. ‘Let’s see what I can do.’

By the time the problem was solved, Phoebe was shyly hanging on his every word.

That night he sat beside her at dinner, and made her join in the dancing afterwards. Phoebe could see the surprise on the other girls’ faces, and revelled in it.

Not so Feeble Feeb, she thought joyously.

But she was also a little nervous. Her sexual experience, apart from a few kisses, was nil. She might be dazzled, but she was also wary, unsure what Tony wanted from her.

But Tony, oddly, seemed wary too—hesitant to push things too far or too fast between them—and she was grateful for his restraint, at first anyway. Then, as time went on, she began to wonder. To worry a little.

She was cheered, however, when he told her there was going to be a party the following Friday evening at a house some miles away.

‘You are going to come with me, aren’t you?’ he asked almost anxiously.

‘I haven’t been invited. Besides, I said I’d go home at the weekend.’

Tony groaned. ‘Oh, sweetheart, you can’t do this to me. Ring home. Say you’re staying on for a few days.’ He put his hand on the nape of her neck, under the heavy fall of brown hair, and stroked the slender curve very gently, making her body arch in delight.

He put his lips to her ear, and whispered, ‘I don’t want to part with you, darling. Not yet.’

The next day, she phoned her father, making some excuse, trying not to hear the disappointment in his voice.

Because she needed to be with Tony. She couldn’t bear to leave either. Not before...

Always, at that point, her mind closed off.

She believed that Tony must want her, otherwise why would he spend so much time exclusively with her? She just wished he would show it rather more openly. Each time he kissed her, he seemed to be holding back. The caresses he offered were exciting, but fleeting too, always short of any real intimacy, leaving her unsatisfied and longing for more.

And she had other, minor worries too. She wanted to look wonderful for Tony at the party, but she was dismally aware that he’d seen all the clothes she’d brought with her, and there was nothing sensational among them.

So, when Tiffany had asked her casually what she was planning to wear, and she’d confessed she didn’t know, she’d found herself immediately up in Tiffany’s room, confronted with a whole range of the kind of gear that looked so terrific on the others.

‘Well, he certainly fancies you.’ Tiffany, lounging on the bed, wouldn’t let the topic rest.

Phoebe tried pulling her hair up on top of her head, but it was too heavy and too thick, and kept sliding down again.

She sighed. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘That’s crap. He never leaves you alone.’

Phoebe sighed again. ‘Actually, he does. He treats me as if I was made of glass and might break.’

‘He wouldn’t if he saw you dressed like that,’ Tiffany giggled.

‘But he won’t see me.’ Phoebe tried not to sound desolate.

‘Of course he will.’ Tiffany sat up. ‘Y’know, your problem is that you give off the wrong vibes. The way you dress and talk and present yourself all says “hands off”, and guys like Tony pick that up. So, on Friday, you’re going to give him a signal that says “I’m available”. And I’m going to help.’

Phoebe gave her a quick, rather shamefaced look. ‘Are you sure, Tiff? It’s just that I thought—at the beginning—that it was Tony and you...’

Tiffany laughed. ‘Hardly. We know each other far too well.’ She contemplated Phoebe with a satisfied smile, like the cat with the cream. ‘Put yourself in my hands, and you’ll knock his eyes out on Friday.’

Phoebe could hardly believe her own eyes when she was finally allowed to look in the mirror on Friday evening. Her own hair was concealed under a shoulder-length blonde wig, which Tiffany had purloined from her mother’s room. Her eyes were slumbrous with kohl, and her lips gleamed a deep, wicked red.

‘You look more like Madonna than she does,’ said Tiffany.

Downstairs, Phoebe was disappointed to discover that Tony had gone ahead to the party with some of the others.

‘Whose party is it, anyway?’ she asked Tiffany, who shrugged vaguely.

‘Just the usual bash,’ she returned. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

She’d expected the house to be another designer nightmare, like Tiffany’s, so North Fitton House came as a pleasant surprise. She lingered on the steps, breathing in the fragrance of the night-scented stocks which filled the stone urns flanking the front door.

Tiffany gave her a little push. ‘Come on. There’s a hungry man waiting in there.’

Tony’s reaction was all that she could have desired.

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